To Be Called Mother

Happiness is fleeting; we must grab it boldly with both hands and hang on for dear life. All too often it slips through our fingertips and we are left, reaching for puffs of air that whisper and swirl around us like ghosts. Try as we might, we can never will those moments of pure joy to stick around for very long.

Life assumes a monotonous slog, marching on and on continuously. It is up to us to find glimpses of light in what seems a never-ending fog, a dismal gloom. Why do we try? Why do we even keep breathing our labored breaths?

For me it is little hands, tender fingertips, that grasp my hair, my neck, my face. Sweet smiles, contagious laughter, a light in his eyes that knows no restraint. Wispy curls and cherub cheeks. He is my warmth, my hope, my dreams as a mother fulfilled.

I don’t know much but I do know this: I will live my days delighted to have participated in the creation of one so genuinely pure and joyful. My love will reign from the highest heights to the deepest depths. And if one day my existence is snuffed out by the yielding sunset of my breath, I will yet be proud to be called his mother, forevermore.